


You and I

by Letha



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: John's POV, M/M, Mild Poetic Prose, PWP, Smut, poetic prose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-14
Updated: 2013-04-14
Packaged: 2017-12-08 11:03:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/760608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Letha/pseuds/Letha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Fuck, your eyes on mine, your expertise, your mouth around me, your touch, your moans, your controlled breathing. I clutch your shoulders in what must be a painful manner, but you don’t as much as flinch.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	You and I

**Author's Note:**

> Endless amount of thanks to my adorable and incredible beta, [Honeybee221b](http://archiveofourown.org/users/honeybee221b/pseuds/honeybee221b). Go check her work out! She's incredible!  
> All remaining mistakes are mine and all of my own making and screwing up. And probably due to my sleepiness. My apologies!  
> Also, many many thanks to the amazing peeps of AD, as usual, who cheered me on and cheered over my sentences enough for me to feel the need to finally post something after so long! ^_^ I adore you guys♥

Your gray-green eyes are watching me, from this angle too dark and lust-filled to look the way they normally do. Your lips tightly closed around my cock, your expert tongue under it, making slight pressure on the underside of my hard member, the way you engulf and release me time and again, the way you moan around my shaft, the light grip of your hands on my testicles, and all I can think of are your eyes. The way you know, the way you examine me like an X-ray machine, as if with one look alone you could tell what I want, what I need. And you probably do.

Fuck, your eyes on mine, your expertise, your mouth around me, your touch, your moans, your controlled breathing. I clutch your shoulders in what must be a painful manner, but you don’t as much as flinch. You watch me. You can tell I’m close, and probably my screams are a giveaway. And then you stop, because you can see, you know I don’t want it to be over yet. You can read it on my skin like a book, as if my sweat was my ink, and your actions and my restraint wrote the words on my body, all over it.

You release me with a pop and come up to me. Our lips meet, and God, I can taste myself in your mouth, I can feel the slide of precum on my tongue. Your erection presses into my thigh and you sigh through your nose, the deliciously warm air making contact on my upper lip, spit-slick and probably swelling, sending a shiver down my spine. My hands have travelled to your hair, and one of them fists in your curls with a violence and need that make you moan.

Your legs straddle my hips. I can hear you preparing yourself for me, and you sigh and moan, and make noises that further my hunger. You move, probably against your hand in order to impale yourself on your long fingers as best as you can. I don’t open my eyes, but feel your movements, your legs rubbing against mine, hear the squeaking of the mattress below us. And I can’t take it. Not when you’re squirming and moaning so close to me.

I roll us so that you lay under me. I pull out your hand and replace your fingers with mine. You positively groan, your deep voice almost a shout. My hand moves, pulling and pushing in and out of you, one finger being added at a time, until (shit, so tight), I have three fingers inside of you, and you beg for more, you beg for me, you whimper. And so I pull out my hand and replace it as fast as I can with my cock.

The music, the rhythm we pick up, its pace marked by the sound of flesh against flesh, and need, the need in our voices, in our cries, the names that die on our lips, and the ones that make it through. Always your name and mine, Sherlock. Always.

And oh God, no. The sensation is too great, and it feels like it is too soon, but I can’t. I can’t hold it in me any longer, I’m sorry. Oh your scream. Your lips, your voice forming my name, rolling off your tongue with practised ease, and you scream, you squirm, and I thrust faster into you, and when your legs tighten around my hips I know, Sherlock, I know, I know you need it, love it, there, so I keep the spot in mind and hit it over, and over, and over, and over, and--

Shit! Yes, there. There. You’re so tight around me, and I whimper, and you sob, but it is all delicious. And your legs tightening and untightening around me. And fuck! Yes, as I watch your face, your blush, and then where I’m entering you, at the point where our bodies merge, then I know my end is close.

As is yours. You squirm one last time, and come on my stomach and yours, and your warm seed, smelling of you, mixes with your sweat, and I come too. I empty myself inside of you with a groan, and I become still. As I come back to my own body, my limbs are shaking with the effort of making me stay propped up on hands and knees. Our breathing is synchronised, and I duck my head to steal a kiss from your lips before giving in to the need to sleep.

I smell your scent, the musk, the sweat, and I taste myself in your mouth even now. I kiss the mark I left on your neck not too long ago, before you swallowed me whole. I run my hands down your cheeks. I slip out of you. I slumber on your naked body, our legs and arms tangled around each other. And I succumb. I succumb to the peaceful and happy sleep that drags me with you, away from our home, and into the land of the dreams full of ethereal bodies, mixed images, and pleasant angels. And you and I. Always you and I, Sherlock.

 


End file.
